The changing room of Sakura Tei was so quiet after closing that you could hear a pin drop. At 11:40 p.m., Ryuichi Sato's black Mercedes pulled up in the back alley right on time. Sakura untied the bow of her apron, but didn't change into casual clothes—she simply put on a black windbreaker over her maid outfit, with the white lace petticoat peeking out from under the hem.
"Yumi-nee, I'm going to take out the trash," Sakura said to the shop manager, who was still counting the accounts. Her voice was just as sweet as usual.
The rain in the back alley formed a mirror-like reflection on the ground. When Sakura opened the car door, Ryuichi Sato was wiping a Japanese sword with a flannel cloth; the blade reflected her faintly glowing eyes.
"Learning this tonight?" Sakura's fingers hovered three centimeters above the blade.
Sato sheathed the sword: "First, test your reaction speed." He suddenly pulled a Glock 26 from under the seat and threw it at her.
The way Sakura caught the gun made Sato raise an eyebrow—she supported the bottom of the magazine with her left hand, her right hand naturally wrapped around the grip, and her index finger stretched straight against the outside of the trigger guard, a standard tactical ready position for holding a gun.
"My father served in the Iraq War," Sakura rotated the gun to check the chamber. "We have an old M1911 at home."
When the engine started, the rain on the car window distorted the neon lights of Tokyo. Sakura looked at the flowing light spots outside the window; the high-necked lace of her maid outfit cast a spiderweb-like shadow on her neck.
The underground training ground reeked of a mix of anti-rust oil and sweat. Sato took off his suit jacket, revealing a hannya tattoo on his forearm.
"First lesson," he suddenly grabbed Sakura's wrist and twisted it behind her back, "pain management."
Sakura's forehead hit the mat, and the frills of her maid outfit got covered in dust. She bit her lip to hold back a sound, but Sato saw her pupils contract for a moment.
"Breathe," Sato increased the force. "Pain is just a nerve signal, like a server alarm—you need to learn to tell the difference between what needs handling and what can be ignored."
When her shoulder joint made a dangerous creaking sound, Sakura suddenly relaxed all her muscles, rolled with Sato's force, and the hem of her windbreaker fluttered, revealing the lace of her petticoat. The way she broke free was remarkably similar to the polite evasion technique maids use when pestered by customers.
"Interesting," Sato let go. "Who taught you that?"
"A lecture on dealing with perverts in Akihabara," Sakura adjusted her askew hair accessory. "It's a required course for maids."
At 1:17 a.m., Sato brought in a man with a blindfold. The smell of blood reached Sakura's nose before her eyes could take in the scene.
"Find out where the Red Snake Group's warehouse in Shinagawa Ward is," Sato handed her medical rubber gloves. "Use your way."
The click of Sakura putting on the gloves was unusually sharp in the enclosed space. She approached the trembling man and suddenly spoke in her sweetest voice: "Master~ You look so tired~"
While the man was stunned, Sakura's nails划过 his wound on the collarbone. Her movement was as gentle as piping cream on a cake, but the man immediately let out a scream.
"At Sakura Tei," Sakura used her blood-stained finger to wipe the corner of his mouth, "we hate customers who waste food the most." She turned on her phone to play the café's opening jingle. "From now on, with each ring, we cut off one finger."
When the jingle rang for the third time, the man lost control of his bladder. Sakura maintained her service smile, and the scalpel in her hand precisely avoided the main blood vessels.
"Yokohama Port Area B23..." the man vomited out the address. Sakura turned to Sato, her eyes shining brightly: "Shall we verify? I can continue..."
Sato noticed her grip on the knife had changed—just now it was a pen-hold grip, and now it was reversed, exactly like holding a cake knife.
In the car on the way back, Sakura took off the blood-stained gloves. Streetlights illuminated the folds of her maid outfit intermittently; the lace frills in the shadows looked remarkably like the tattoo patterns on Sato's arm.
"The maid tea party on Sunday," Sakura suddenly said, "the daughter of the Red Snake Group's second-in-command will come." She pulled out an invitation from the hidden pocket of her petticoat; the outline of a gun handle was faintly visible through the gaps in the lace.
Sato smiled a real smile for the first time. He reached out to brush the dust off Sakura's hair, his movement almost gentle: "Do you know why I chose you?"
Sakura looked at the car window; the glass reflected her flawless maid's smile: "Because maids are best at... cleaning up the mess without a trace?"
When the Mercedes stopped in the back alley of Sakura Tei, the morning light had already dyed the sky. Sakura touched up her lipstick in the vanity mirror, then suddenly wiped the corner of her mouth with a blood-stained tissue.
"Oh, right," she turned back before getting off, "for next week's special dessert... how about red velvet cake?"
Sato's loud laughter scared the pigeons under the eaves away. Sakura walked toward the back door in the morning light, the hem of her windbreaker fluttering with her steps, revealing the dried blood on her petticoat—it looked just like fallen cherry blossom petals.